


Father Christmas

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Gen, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5368874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their years together, they'd never properly celebrated Christmas in the brownstone. Joan always went off to be with her family and Sherlock, well, to him it was just another day. </p><p>Chapter 5: Christmas Day</p><p>This started with a fic prompt from Possibility221 and kept growing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A teenage boy, perhaps nineteen at most, well groomed and in a suit far too expensive for one so young, stood at the door. He balanced several wrapped boxes and a gift bag as he spoke. “Miss Watson?”

Joan scowled at him. It was early and cold and she was at the door only because Sherlock, hanging upside down in the lockroom, ignored the incessant knocking and her pleas from upstairs that he answer it.

“Yes,” her answer asked more than affirmed.

“Mr. Holmes requested delivery of these items to you and the junior Mr. Holmes,” he gave her an unnatural smile and bobbed his head stiffly at the elaborately wrapped gifts he held.

Joan scanned the shape and sizes of the boxes. She grumpily considered the possibility the boxes contained explosives but quickly concluded that the senior Mr. Holmes would more than likely not want to damage the brownstone. She accepted the young man’s offering. 

Not waiting for a tip, Morland’s errand boy promptly turned and descended the front steps, leaving her to maneuver the irregular pyramid of boxes and the dangling bag into the house. She managed to close the door with a forceful kick, and called for him again. “Sherlock!” No response. Muttering to herself as she walked, Joan reached the hall sofa and carefully placed the gifts onto it. 

Her attention shifted to her dangling partner. He had earplugs in place and his eyes were firmly shut. Joan kneeled before him and in a not very gentle manner relieved him of the ear plugs. His eyes blinked open.

“Watson?” He asked quietly and waited. She sat down cross-legged on the floor before him.

“Your father sent over presents.” She motioned towards the teetering stack of boxes precariously seated on the red cushions behind her.

“Ah! Of course.” Sherlock swung his body and in one swooping motion disengaged himself from the contraption and bounced onto his feet.

“Of course?” Joan repeated. She looked up at him and awaited the explanation she knew would follow.

“There’ll be more to come.” Sherlock walked over and inspected the lot. “Father, like most absentee parents, would lavish gifts on Mycroft and myself at Christmas time with the intent of winning our affection and banishing all thought of the vileness he directed towards us the other 364 days of the year.” He poked around at the gifts and peered into the tissued bag. “Looks like you’ve been adopted Watson. Roughly half of these bear your name.”

She stood up and made her way over. “Great. Just what I need, another father.”

He looked at her askance, “You’re in a rather foul mood.”

“It’s cold.” Joan wrapped her cardigan a little closer to herself and eyed him accusingly. “I don’t like being pulled out of bed to answer doors.” Sherlock looked suitably apologetic and her gaze returned to the gifts. “They are beautifully wrapped, aren’t they?” The metallic curled ribbons and bows glinted against the red and green foil papers.

He folded his arms over his bare chest and surveyed his father’s offerings. “Don’t be lured in, Watson … All that glitters ......” 

“You don’t think he expects to be invited over for Christmas dinner, do you?” Joan cut her eyes to him. “Should we invite him?”

Disgust contorted his features, “Absolutely not. We are not this easily bought.” He tilted his head towards her. “And since when do we have Christmas dinner?”

“He is your father and it is Christmas … ” Joan pushed one of the smaller boxes back towards safety. She didn't like or trust the man, but he was family. “Since my parents are spending the holidays with Oren and I opted out …” She glanced up at him. “It’ll just be us … and …”

He shifted his weight, twisting his shoulders as he did and continuing to stare at her, trying to follow her logic.

Joan took in what he was not saying. “You’re right. Its a ridiculous idea.” She closed her cardigan about her once more and shook her head at his bare torso, “Put your shirt on.”

With arms still crossed he flexed his biceps and pecs, “Too much male pulchritude for you?” He teased and gave her a slow waggle of his eyebrows.

“Yeah, right,” she laughed and hit his arm with the back of her hand as she went past him.

Sherlock smiled at the floor and walked over towards his tshirt. As his head popped through the opening, a thought occurred to him. Had she forgone her family Christmas to keep him company at what she perceived would be a vulnerable time for him?

He found her in the kitchen, and posed the question directly to her.

Joan took a second, reaching for the coffee pot before answering him. Sherlock looked upset and she quickly went on to tell him the truth. “Partially, yes. I didn’t want to leave you here alone …”

“Watson, while I appreciate the kindness, it is completely unnecessary …”

She interrupted his interruption. “Let me finish. I said partially …. partially. You factored into my decision, yes. But after the fiasco that was the Watson family Thanksgiving, I chose to not spend Christmas with them for my own sanity.” Joan poured herself a cup and motioned with the pot to offer him one. Sherlock reached into the cabinet for his cup as Watson continued. “I’d much rather have a quiet, pleasant holiday at home than deal with the current politics of the Watson clan.” She poured him his cup.

Sherlock watched her, “Hmm. Alright. I suppose I understand your reasoning. … And yet, you would consider inviting my father, here, into our home for dinner? If that is your definition of quiet and pleasant, I shudder to think how awful your family gatherings must be.”

Joan smiled, “Your father would only be here for a few hours. I’d be stuck with my family for days. Anyway, it was just a thought, probably a bad thought …. But he will be alone…”

“Father employs a cadre of sycophants for just these type of occasions. Besides, I’m sure the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future shall more than aptly keep him company.”

Joan couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Morland in Scrooge attire. “Come on,” her mood was lightening quickly, “Let’s put our powers of observation and deduction to good use and figure out what’s in those boxes.”


	2. Chapter 2

"Watson!" .... "WATSON!" His shouting was followed by the pounding of footsteps on the stairs. 

"Down here!" Joan called up to him from the basement office and Sherlock came galloping down to her. He came to an abrupt stop and stood at attention before her. His stiff, exaggerated posture and the tapping of his fingers at his sides further telegraphed his agitation. He could not meet her eyes. 

"What's wrong?" Joan knew him well enough to know his anger was currently aimed at himself. Sherlock's face shifted from one expression to the next as he tried to find a way to confess what he had done. "Come on," she coaxed him, "out with it."

He looked at her and then quickly looked away, finding a spot on the far left wall to fix his gaze upon. "I'm not sure how it happened. I met with father this afternoon." He turned his head back towards her, "If it weren't for the fact that I do not believe in the occult, I would be willing to swear the man set some sort of dark and muddling curse upon me ...."

Joan tried not to show her amusement. Morland Holmes had the uncanny ability to push every tightly-buttoned button his son possessed. 

Sherlock took a deep breath in and held it before spewing it all out. "I ... He ... I invited Father to join us for Christmas." He cast his eyes to the ground not wanting to face her reaction and when she said nothing, he cut his eyes up to her face.

Watson looked stunned but not horrified. There was no trace of blame when she spoke. "Okay. That's not all that bad. We can do this." Her mind reeled with all that needed to be done. "Christmas is three days away. We'd best get started." She walked towards her desk and he followed apologizing. 

"I'm sorry, Watson. Truly, you don't have to do this .... He is my monster; you needn't have to entertain him ... I can tell him we have had a change of plans.... You certainly are not obligated.... 

Lists needed to be made and she reached for a pad and a pencil. "It's alright, Sherlock. We can handle a simple dinner with your father ..." 

"Ha! That's what you think. He will chew us up and spit out our bones." Sherlock plopped into a chair. "I don't know how he did it. He asked if we'd received his gifts and I made the mistake of looking into his eyes and next thing I knew I heard myself inviting him.... HIM of all people ... over for Christmas dinner." He looked towards her, seeking her understanding if not her forgiveness. 

She sat at her desk, "So is he coming Christmas Day or Christmas Eve?"

"Christmas Day." He got angry all over again and stood up. "This is insane. That we would have that man as a guest ... for a holiday that the two of us have never celebrated ..." He paced before her desk, "It brings back every horrid Yuletide that Mycroft and I suffered through. I owe him nothing. You certainly owe him nothing."

Joan kept making out her list. If Sherlock didn't want to go through with the dinner, he'd be on the phone right now with his father canceling the event. But he wasn't. He was venting frustration and when he was done, they'd get to work.

"We'll need a tree." She said matter-of-factly. 

"What? No!" He grumpily sat down again. "We will not be dragging pseudo-Druid shrubbery into the house for that old man."

"I'd like a tree." Her tone had a wistful quality that shot through him. 

Sherlock melted at the look in her eyes and shook his head and waved his hand, "Alright. We can get one tonight if you'd like." Her smile was his reward.

"Good." She put a check mark on her list. "We have three days to decorate and plan a menu."

While she didn't relish the thought of spending the day exchanging pleasantries with Father Holmes, Joan liked the idea of celebrating the holiday with Sherlock. 

In their years together, they'd never properly celebrated Christmas in the brownstone. She always went off to be with her family and Sherlock, well, to him it was just another day. At least that's what he said the times she had invited him to her family's celebrations and he had turned her down. But he and the house were always dark upon her return and his mood always seemed to lift with her arrival.


	3. O' Christmas Tree

While Watson worked on her to-do lists, Sherlock researched commonly available Christmas evergreens: pine, fir, spruce, their branching structures and density, fire resilience, propensity toward pests, etc.

Information gathered, he marched through the brownstone in search of an unobtrusive location for this yet-to-be purchased anachronistic icon of cheer. It needed to be placed where it would not impede their work flow, and, he supposed, it should have a certain degree of visibility. 

After consultation with Watson (i.e., she told him where it would be placed), the library, in front of the middle window was selected as optimal. Measurements of depth and breadth of said location were taken and noted, leaving only the purchase to be accomplished. Sherlock made his way to the front door.

Watson dreaded going with him to buy the tree but equally dreaded letting him go off on his own, fearing he'd Charlie Brown it. She grabbed her purse and followed after him.

*** 

They walked in unison, side by side, skirting around their fellow pedestrians. Colored lights were beginning to show themselves in the neighborhood windows. The late afternoon air was brisk, smelling of bus fumes and evergreens, the scent of Christmas to Watson. Memories of Christmas shopping with her mom, peering in small shop windows, her breath fogging the frosty glass were abruptly cut short by Sherlock's crisp announcement, "Here we are!"

Sherlock approached the Christmas tree lot as if it were a still-hot crime scene. First came an overall visual inspection - he went down the narrow passage, carefully observing before selecting the first potential tree and putting it through its paces. He measured the pine's height and girth, then dropped flat on his back, scooting under the tree and inspecting it from beneath. Popping upright with a bounce, he buried his face in the greenery and checked for proper fragrance. Finally, he grabbed the trunk of the tree, gave it several good shakes and then a forceful bounce onto the cement. 

Watson looked away and pretended she was not with him. The tree lot attendant took it all in stride. He'd seen worse. Hipsters tended to get obsessive about trees, especially in this gentrified area of Brooklyn. 

The saints were watching over her today, Joan thought, when Sherlock managed to find the perfect tree after only three such inspections. Hoisting it onto his shoulder as they left the lot, Sherlock seemed almost happy. 

***

"Perfect," she pronounced it, as Sherlock stepped back to join her. The tree was in situ, and lights, none the worse for the colorful British slurs they were subjected to, were in place and plugged in.

"I would bloody-well hope so," Sherlock grumbled. "It's seven p.m. and we've accomplished little else but drag a dead tree into the house and wrap it in fairy lights to celebrate it's passing." The tree twinkled unfazed by Sherlock's comments.

Hands on hips, Watson admired their work, "What are we going to do for decorations?"

The acerbic retort she expected never came. Sherlock stood quietly beside her seeming almost mesmerized by the tree. His voice came from far away, "My mum would tie red ribbon bows on each of the boughs ..." 

Joan studied him for a second. His eyes shone with the vision of a long repressed memory. Sorrow crossed his face. She let the moment stand and did not pry; when he was ready, they would talk. 

"The ribbons sound lovely. We always string popcorn garlands. I'll run out and get ribbon, if you'll start popping corn." She lightly lay her hand on his shoulder and it snapped him out of his reverie. 

He looked almost surprised to find her standing beside him. Sherlock blinked several times and came back to himself. "Alright." His lips twisted into a thin semblance of a smile. "But hurry. I would dearly love to get some actual work done tonight." With a small grimace, the facade that Sherlock wore to protect himself fell back into place.

***

The tinkling of piano music greeted her when she returned. Possibly Debussy, she thought and hung up her coat. Joan walked into the library and set down the bag of red ribbon on the sofa beside Sherlock. A large bowl of popcorn sat on his lap from which he absentmindedly ate as he stared at the tree. 

"Debussy?" Joan asked as she took a handful of popcorn to snack on.

"Mmm..." He answered nodding his head still staring at the tree. "She had a preference for the sonatas.... learned to play the piano ... for her ..." His voice drifted away and he suddenly took a big breath of air, and moved the bowl from his lap. He looked at Joan. "What say we start stringing before we eat up the raw materials of our garlands, hmm?"

They got to work. She cut lengths of ribbons; he tied them to the tree. Both sat down on the floor and strung the popcorn into garlands. Debussy continued softly in the background. 

He muttered every so often about the ridiculous waste of time this all was but he kept working. Joan's phone rang in the middle of one of his small tirades. 

"It's my mother," she rolled her eyes. "Giving me one last chance to change my mind and join them, no doubt."

"Go, you should go. Family is so very important at this time of year." His tone mocked her.

Joan made a face at him. "I'm going to use you as an excuse so don't get upset...." She cleared her throat and put on her best happy voice.

"Hi mom.... Yep, uh huh .... I'm glad. You guys will have a great time. ... Uh huh. ...... No. Really I can't. .... He'd be all alone and I would just spend all my time worrying about him. ... Well, no but ..... Uh huh .... But mom, he wouldn't ...it'd be uncomfortable for him." 

Sherlock's eyes widened as he surmised he was being invited to join the Watsons' traveling plans. He shook his head no at her and made faces. Joan suppressed a giggle. 

"It's alright... Maybe next year. We'll be fine here. .... Uh huh ... Say hi to Oren and .... Uh huh .... Okay ... Okay, mom, got to go, Sherlock's calling me .... " 

Sherlock recognized his cue. He covered his mouth to muffle his words, "Watson, come here please."

Joan shook her head at him and smiled causing a boyish grin to spring to his face. "Okay. I'll tell him you said so. ... Bye, love you too." She hung up and let out a breath. "She sends you love and joy for Christmas. Her words not mine." She picked up the popcorn string and continued working.

"What is going on amongst the Watsons?" Contrary to her happy vocal tone, her body had displayed the stress and strain of the conversation and his interest was piqued.

"Well, let's see.... My brother and I think my mom is showing further signs of decline. My mother disagrees and won't seek medical evaluation. My father sides with my mother and won't force her to go to the doctor. My brother accuses my father of not caring sufficiently about my mother. He threw the affair up as evidence of his lack of feeling which upset my mom and she defended my dad. My dad says Oren's marriage is falling apart and that's why he is causing problems and I ... I am stuck in the middle trying to referree." 

She looked up at Sherlock who sat with his mouth slightly open. "I know ... And that was just during Thanksgiving dinner...." She sighed. "I'll sit them all down after the holidays and sort it out." Sherlock looked concerned. "We'll figure it out. How about we worry about our celebration. What are you going to make for Christmas dinner?"

Sherlock turned his attention back to the popcorn string in his hand, and muttered, "Yorkshire puddings. Dozens upon dozens of Yorkshire puddings."


	4. Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve mixer! Ha! Forced joviality and trite seasonal music, garish attire and under-seasoned food did not a festive celebration make. With a scowl on his face, Sherlock sat back against the wall, surveying the lot of them. The precinct was decked out in holly and pine, atwinkle with fairy lights and red velvet bows but it was not nearly enough to mask the banal nature of the grim tiled institution. 

Watson had given him a choice: "either you attend the "bash" at the station or the "bash" attends you." The woman did not make idle threats and the thought of these miscreants roaming through their home was horrifying. So here he sat.

Sherlock watched her. Watson was the soul of conviviality; smiling and conversing with all the smarmy not-Bells. She shone, intelligent and beautiful, a pearl among muddy rocks. A covey drew around her and trailed her like quail. As if those idiots had a chance with her. He snorted at the thought and wondered how she put up with their drivel. His scowl deepened. 

Yes, he agreed that as consultants it might be necessary to stay on the good side of their so-called co-workers, keep the lines of communication open for the sake of future investigations .... but at what cost. 

He shook his head and turned his attention to Detective Bell who was engrossed in an animated analysis of an athletic event with the Captain. Chitchat, be it about sports, children or the family cat, was a language he did not speak, nor did he care to learn. 

Sherlock checked his watch and glowered. Thirty-seven more minutes of this hell and he could leave. He had struck a deal with Watson - he would attend for one hour and forty-three minutes, after which time, he was free to leave with or without her. Watson had given him a safe word to use in case it all got too unbearable for him. But the word came with a penalty, should he use it without need: Christmas Eve shopping among the hordes in midtown. 

He crossed his arms before him and scanned the group once more, amusing himself gathering the secrets that these people thought they hid. Lovers, former lovers, food addicts, the depressed, the truth shone through the weak facades they presented to each other. 

Watson caught his eye. The tension in her stance and gestures conveyed weariness, leaning towards irritation. He knew well the signs of Watson's ire. She was now looking directly at him and the look on her face cried help. Sherlock was at her side in an instant.

"Sherlock," she acted surprised to see him. Her hand touched him on the arm and slid the distance down to interlace her fingers with his. He cut his eyes down to their joined hands and blinked in confusion. "Do you remember the name of the Clamshell murderer, the tall man with the binoculars ...." She squeezed his hand as she spoke.

Sherlock had to check her face for further confirmation. Binoculars. Yes, the safe word was used as intended. He gave her a thin lipped smile and gave her hand a small squeeze back.

"Ah, yes I do. Clive Arkham, a rather slimy fellow. But that's a rather long story, for which, unfortunately, we have no time." The small group made a soft disappointed sound. "Perhaps another day. We are already late." He showed her the time on his watch as if it had great significance.

"Oh my goodness, that late already," Watson's acting skills could use some honing he thought.

"If you'll excuse us, we really must go," Sherlock put on his best scowly Brit face, bowed ever so slightly from the shoulders and tugged at her hand. The men and women grumbled, as if he were taking away a favored toy. Watson made her apologies with royal grace, shrugging her shoulders as if it was all out of her control and letting Sherlock lead the way. 

He held her coat for her, while she waived her goodbyes at Marcus and the Captain and murmured a relieved, "God, thank you."

Out on the street, a cold wind blew, reinvigorating both of them. "Thank you for the rescue. I suppose you have a suitable penalty lined up for my use of the safe word."

Sherlock gave her a rarity, a genuine smile. "Yes. Yes I do. We are going to get Thai food, take it back home and sit up to wait for Father Christmas' arrival at midnight."

"How is that a penalty?"

Sherlock looked down at her happy face, "It is a penalty because you will have to bear my curmudgeonly company for the next six hours or so. Plus, we have dear old dad to contend with tomorrow, that's plenty a penalty for the both us, hmm?" He bounced his shoulder into hers.

The crowded sidewalk threatened to separate them and her gloved hand once more found his as they headed towards the subway stairs.


	5. Christmas Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: this chapter contains few more mature words than the previous chapters.

The sound of metal crashing on metal followed almost instantaneously by a loud yowl and words that were wholly inappropriate for Christmas morning alerted Watson to Sherlock's location. She walked into the kitchen with bouquets of flowers and evergreens to prepare a centerpiece. 

"You okay?" She provided him the opportunity to vent - better now than when his father arrived.

"Yes, Watson I am absolutely fine - I've just provided myself with a severe burn preparing a meal that will be criticized and most likely not eaten by a man I detest, but I am fine."

Joan spread the greenery on the counter and took the brownstone's sole vase out from one of the lower cabinets. She answered him casually, "Oh, come on, you don't detest him. You wouldn't have invited him for Christmas dinner if you did." 

"I am still stymied as to how he did that - it was not a voluntary solicitation, I assure you." More pans clattered, more words uttered - british slang this time, some words she had never heard him use before but assumed the worst of.

"Well, I will appreciate your meal and your effort." She arranged the green fronds in the small round vase. "He won't be here for a few hours, why don't you take a break."

As if on cue, the upstairs doorbell buzzed. They exchanged a look of horror and rapidly made their way upstairs. 

Sherlock removed his apron, rolled down his sleeves and prepared himself to deal with the beast while Watson opened the door.

"Oh, it's you," she said and Sherlock came around behind her to see who it was.

Morland's lackey, the well-dressed boy who'd delivered the first round of presents stood at the door, once again holding gifts. "Ms. Watson," he nodded stiffly at her and then at Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes sends his kindest regards to you and the junior Mr. Holmes, and begs your forgiveness. Business has detained him and he will not be available to join you for dinner."

"Hah!" The exclamation flew out of Sherlock's mouth followed by a slap to his leg, "Of course! What was I thinking! Dad never shows!"

The young man continued, "He bade me give you this, sir." He handed Sherlock a large rectangular gift. "And this for you ma'am." Joan accepted the small square box. Bowing stiffly once again, he turned and descended the stairs leaving Joan and Sherlock standing in the doorway trying to sort out their emotions. 

Sherlock moved into the library, "Well played, old man, well played. Hooked me and reeled me in once again." He plopped into his chair.

Joan walked in behind him, "Forgive me, I know he's your father but that man is a worthless piece of shit. Fuck him, he can't treat you like this." She threw the small gift box onto the sofa.

Sherlock looked up in shock. Watson rarely used that sort of language. He stared open mouth at her and then did something he rarely did. He chuckled. She looked at him confused.

"It's alright, Watson." He tried to calm her down but she interrupted. 

"No. It's not alright. You don't deserve to be treated like this. Nor do I for that matter. He didn't even have the decency to call!" 

"He's done this my whole life. Shame on me for believing him once again. As per custom, he sent gifts to ameliorate the sting of his absence." He grimaced at her to punctuate the sarcasm and she rolled her eyes. 

"What kind of business could possibly be more important on Christmas Day than dinner with his son?" Joan paced before him.

"Watson, truly I don't mind. If anything, I am relieved ... I don't have to put up with the old windbag. Don't upset yourself because of him." He seemed more upset for her than for himself and tried to distract her. "Here ..... Let's see what the old man sent us, hmm?" 

He tore the wrappings off his gift, made his way through the bubble wrap and fell still and silent. Sherlock stared at what appeared from Joan's perspective to be a painting. 

"What is it?" She made her way around and stood at his side. In his hand was an oil painting of a boy of about seven or eight years of age. 

"Mother was an up and coming painter before she met him," he whispered at the painting. 

The expression on the boy's face and the large steel-blue eyes left no doubt as to the child's identity. ""That's you, isn't it?"

"Mmm," he answered softly. "She had me sit for her for several days. At seven years of age, sitting still was even more of a punishment than it is now."

"She must have been very patient." Joan smiled at the thought of what a handful Sherlock must have been at that age.

"She was..." Memories of his mother started filtering through the barriers he had set up for his own peace of mind. "Mum would tell me stories to keep me from fidgeting ... Mythology, history, the escapades of gods and painters ..." His voice petered out.

Joan picked up the small envelope that had fallen among the wrappings. Staring at Sherlock's name, surely calligraphied on to its front by some nameless underling, she wavered - whatever Morland had to say, would no doubt cause Sherlock pain.

As if reading her mind, Sherlock extended his hand for the envelope. "It's alright, Watson. I am quite immune to Morland's barbs and castigations."

Joan placed her hand lightly at his shoulder as he read the card aloud. 

"I found this stored amongst her old things. Thought you'd have more use for it than I. Perhaps you can pass it on to your progeny, should you ever sire. ~MH"

"Bastard...." Joan muttered under her breath. 

"Hmmm...." He stared at the note for a moment or two, collecting himself. "Well, the old man is beginning to show himself, isn't he? This..." He shook the note before him, "This is actually quite warm and fuzzy for Father. I'm sure he regrets not being here to see my overjoyed reaction." Sherlock hid the cold pain his father inflicted under sarcasm. He cast the note to the floor and moved to deflect attention away from himself. "Shall we see what sweet little something he got you?"

Joan looked over to where she had tossed the small box. "I'm not sure I want to open it."

"Be brave, Watson." He set his painting carefully down beside his chair and walked to the sofa. Sherlock handed her the package. "How bad can it be?"

Joan shook her head and sighed. The pretty wrapping paper came off easily and revealed a black velvet box with a small card attached. She held her breath and opened it. 

Dearest Joan,  
I can think of no one better to bestow this open. Joyeux Noel!  
~MH

Within lay a platinum ring, set with what appeared to be at least a three carat marquis cut diamond. Sherlock took in a sharp breath. Joan looked up at him to find his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Mother's engagement ring." He whispered. Carefully, he took the box from her hand, moved a step back and sat on the sofa all the while staring at the object.

Joan knew absolutely nothing other than the little bit he had just shared about his mother. Asking what had happened to her at this moment seemed inappropriate and insensitive, so she sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and waited for him to speak. 

Sherlock gingerly removed the ring from where it nestled in the black velvet folds of the box. He wiped at his face with one hand. Deep in thought and memories, he rolled the ring in the light and watch the scintillations of the diamond. 

"He's right you know." He spoke to Watson while still mesmerized by the ring.

"What is he right about?" Her voice was a husky whisper. 

Sherlock turned to look at her, surprised to find tears in her eyes as well. "You are the only person to whom this ring should belong." He took a deep breath and stared at the shining jewel before him. "My mother ... loved me very much." He nodded to himself. "As I loved her ... very much indeed."

His hand moved to hers, tenderly picking it up. With reverence, he placed the ring on her finger. "It even fits..." he whispered.

There eyes met and he gave her a weak smile. Joan had no words. Overwhelmed with emotion, tears trickled down her cheeks. Sherlock moved to wipe them and she moved forward embracing him, placing her arms about his neck and holding him to her. To her surprise, he did not resist, but reciprocated, burying his head in the crook of her neck. They sat together in the comfort of each other's arms for a moment or two until the blare of Joan's phone snapped them apart.

Joan stared at the phone as it vibrated and rang out on the ottoman. "Oh god, it's my mother." She squeezed her eyes shut in a painful grimace and reached for the phone, apologizing to Sherlock as she did so.

"Hi mom." The false happiness amused Sherlock. "What? ... Wait. Where are you?" Her eyes grew wide with fear as she looked at Sherlock. "Oh ... Uh huh ... I see .... That's really sweet but we aren't home right now. We were called in to assist at a double homicide..." 

Sherlock mouthed 'what?' at her and Joan shrugged and shook her as she continued "yeah, I know .... Uh huh ... We don't know how long we'll be here. It was a lovely thought. Thank you. I have to go ... I'm sorry. Tell everyone Merry Christmas for me. Uh huh .... Love you too. Bye."

Joan clicked off her phone and hung her head. 

"What was all that about?" Sherlock asked but he had a pretty good idea what had just transpired. 

"They were all in the car on their way over to spend Christmas with us. And I know I'm a horrible, horrible person, but I've had enough of family for today."

"So you lied?"

"Yes, if you are ever asked, we spent Christmas investigating a double homicide. Now, go pack a small bag, we are spending the night at a hotel."

Sherlock looked at her utterly confused. 

"My mom will still come over here. I know her. She'll camp out at our doorstep with baskets of food waiting for us to return."

"Watson, I think you are overreacting. Mary is a fairly reasonable woman, I don't think she'd ..."

"Sherlock, trust me. I know my parent as well as you do yours. Her motives are different but her tenacity is equal to your father's. So unless you want to spend the rest of Christmas Day explaining this," Joan flashed the ring on her hand at him, "... to my mom, I suggest you move."

Sherlock stood up quickly. "I'll turn off the stove, put away the food and meet you here in ten minutes."

"I'll call and reserve us a room at the Raphael." 

With their plan of action agreed upon, they tore off in separate directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Mother Holmes was a painter, a good one. And that Jaime Moriarty used that fact to lure him to her, mimicking the traits of the only woman she knew Sherlock had ever loved .... up until that point at least. And then she killed "Irene" off just as his mother had died, leaving him alone in the world.


End file.
